Under the Mango Tree: 101 Tales (3)

SAME AS IT EVER WAS

Challenge No. 47 - Maybe This Time.

Write a scene that includes time travel.

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Sandy Quinlan was quickly finding out that there was more to military life than dress uniforms and parades. The raison d'être of an army was war. To fight. To defend. To defeat.

He'd signed up for duty with the Caribbean Defense Force for the same reason many others did - three square meals and an education.

'Come join!' the recruiter gushed.

'We're a family!' the recruiter promised.

'Boys and girls! We don't discriminate!' the recruiter had assured the students.

'Caribbean people are lovers, not fighters! We make love not war.' the recruiter chanted.

'We do peacekeeping missions. Not war! Tell me whenever you hear of the Caribbean at war. War with who?' the recruiter challenged.

So, Sandy and his friends had signed up. It had been fun and Sandy was a smart guy. What he didn't have was the money to move up in life. Because he was a smart guy, he'd begun to move up the ranks. Here he was already a Lieutenant.

Here he was a Lieutenant in a fox hole. The Americas had been dragged into WWIII and Lt Sandré Quinlan was now in a fox hole in the brutal and infamous Russian front.

It was the middle of August so they had yet to face the bitter cold of the winter. But the rains had come, the soldiers were wet and were in position in the wet mud of the trench. The slightest scratch festered and killed as the rain of mortars and bullets didn't always make it easy for a medic to get through.

"It's 2040 for heaven's sake. With all the smart weapons out there we still rely on men in foxholes?" Sandy grumbled.

"What you expect, Quinlan, it's war. Not some video game." Captain Sales replied, slapping his arms.

"We need some Caribbean sun." Someone said.

"Amen! I'd give good money to be one hundred years in the past. Life had to be better than this."

"INCOMING!" Someone shouted.

The bomb didn't land on them but was close enough for shrapnel to rain down on them.

"Close. Too close." Sandy popped up.

"Quinlan! Stop nattering and move your arse! Didn't you hear the order! Move!" The English accent hit Sandy.

Something wasn't right.

He looked around in panic. His uniform was different. So were the others.

"Where am I?" He said almost to himself.

"I ask myself that question every day. The Russian front in August of nineteen hundred and forty is not the place for this lover boy. But that's where we are, sonny." A man slapped Sandy on the shoulder as he moved past.

'1940!' his brain fought reality.

It was the middle of August so they had yet to face the bitter cold of the winter. But the rains had come, the soldiers were wet and were in position in the wet mud of the trench. The slightest scratch festered and killed as the rain of mortars and bullets didn't always make it easy for a medic to get through.

© 16 April 2022

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